Children of Winterfell
by ahoot20
Summary: The war is fourteen years over, and an independent Winterfell has reemerged as a ruling northern city; a city that once again belongs to the wolves. Queen Sansa Stark is queen by blood, Queen Jeyne Westerling is queen by marriage, and Queen Jeyne Poole is queen by friendship and invitation; all three rule justly with their men and children, until winter comes again.
1. Prologue

Even in the bleak white waste north of the Wall, many a tale had been told of the Three Queens of Winterfell—fantastic tales that brought more to mind the magnificent legends from the Age of Heroes than they did a trio of middle-aged orphans who lived and breathed and shat among mere mortals in the present day.

Time and patience had allowed Suren to hear them all, from the quiet drunken whisperings among his comrades-in-arms to the bolder stories exchanged during marches to stave away boredom. He heard them and remembered every word.

Hearing them was one thing though; to believe was a different creature.

The Stark girl they called Queen of Winter—a witch who could meet a leer or rude word with a cold enough glare from her ice blue eyes to freeze a man's blood solid. _There may be some truth to this one, _thought Suren as he was introduced to the rulers of the northern capital. Her eyes were as bright as those of a wight, and her skin was snow-pale as well; if he had been a bolder man, Suren would have reached out a hand to touch her arms and see if he could feel warmth pumping through her veins. Her ugly brute of a husband stood next to her though, and the freeman did not dare. _It's him and his nasty face that's fucking got me scared spineless, not that I would touch her and find her skin cold… I'm not scared of Them._

_If you repeat something often enough, perhaps it comes true…_

Robb Stark's young widow was the Rightful Queen, a well-formed beauty with perfect round teats and a nice comely shape to her; she would steal a man's heart, kiss him and bed him, but rip his entrails from his bloody stomach and eat them raw before the morning sun arose in Winterfell, if the stories could be believed. That one seemed unlikely to the wildling. Jeyne Westerling's smile seemed sincere enough, though she was lovely and deliciously well-curved. Despite the apparent risks, Suren found himself fantasizing about sharing his furs with the woman; her full lips on his slender neck, her perfectly shaped nails raking down his spine. He shivered suddenly, remembering where he was and trying desperately not to become any more aroused.

_Remember what you have to do,_ he repeated these words in his head like a holy mantra.

_Tread carefully. Keep to the task at hand._

The third queen was the False Queen, and she was the only one not returning his smile. While Stark and Westerling were connected by blood or marriage to the Stark family, this girl (Poole, her name was?) was connected only by friendship, and by the laws of those south of the Wall, had no place among royalty. In the tales he had heard, Poole had, in her past, bedded a demon—a black, fell spirit of darkness and pain. The passion of their couplings had eventually bore fruit, and she was often accompanied around the courts by a little half-demoness with blood red eyes, that fed only on human blood. _Can't tell the truth of this one yet—the little shit-faced brats are probably already in the hall, but based on her eyes, I'm like to believe it. _Poole's eyes looked passionless and dull, from experience Suren could recognize them as belonging to one who had known great suffering. Like Westerling, she stood alone.

"I trust you've found your accommodations to be well-enough to your liking?" inquired Westerling politely, speaking to Suren from among his companions and meeting his eyes with her own, brown and beautiful and full of fierce northern pride. The hall was already prepared for the feast and awaiting only the return of the queens for the meal to begin.

"Of course, my lady," he answered, nodding his head, trying his best to fit in to this southern kneelers' dance, so different from his own. "So pleased that you could provide room in your great castle for my humble party."

Twenty freefolk had made the hard journey, the best of the lot that he could muster together on such short notice. Vespar of Southfang and Kiviq Snowbear stood with him now for support, but it was him, young Suren, called Icebane, that was in control of this quest, whom all looked up to as leader. Old Kiviq was wickedly strong but stupid, he lacked the cunning to pull something like this together; the Great Snowbear was the type that solved the majority of his problems with the sharp head of his axe. Vespar did seem to possess some kind of seasoned, wily intelligence—and had pedigree on his side as well, being the goddamned Lord o' Bone's whelp, but his own people seemed to despise him just as much as they had despised his idiot father before him. No, neither of them were born to lead, that responsibility was a burden only Suren could carry, and in the future his people would remember how the Icebane had saved them all.

Suren followed behind the great ladies of Winterfell as Jeyne Westerling, Queen in the North, led the freefolk leaders to sit at the high table with the children and the cream of the city.

The room was wildly beyond the scope of anything Suren had ever seen before.

If the Great Hearth in Winterfell had been more magnificent before the war, it must certainly have been one of the wonders of the world. The reconstruction and renovations had left the large dining hall simply yet elegantly decorated; huge tapestries depicting historical scenes hung suspended on walls of smooth polished stone, while high up on the walls dozens of arched windows were cut; they would be letting in light if the outside wasn't shrouded in darkness. Instead, numerous torches on the walls provided light by which to dine. Winter days were short, even here in Winterfell south of the Wall.

Table after table after table was laid out, covered with massive helpings of food and drink—whole roasted goats, complete with ripe apples in mouth, plates piled high with pickled fish, onions, and mushrooms, grouse stuffed with rice and herbs, lamprey pie, berry medleys stewed in cinnamon and fivespice, lemoncackes, huge tankards of ale, abundant wine in too many varieties to count; red and white and pink, sweet and sour, fruity and spiced. Suren felt his eyes go wide at the sight of so much sustenance, fought to control himself from drooling outright. A quick glance to his left showed a large drop of spittle making its way slowly down the Snowbear's chin; at least he wasn't alone. Winter life was more-than-a-little difficult lately north of the Wall, and the entirety of their party was half-starved and ravenous from the difficult journey south.

The next few hours passed as quickly as the memories of a good dream, fading to nothing with the rising of the northern sun. At least four courses were brought to the high table, and Suren ate every bite on every plate that was brought him; both ignorant and uncaring of whether this might seem rude to the kneelers. His hard life north of the wall taught him that few crimes were more serious than the wanton wasting of food; though he noticed that the royal children across the table picked and fussed with their plates, eating only a small portion of the great bounty before them. This alone was enough to provoke him into blind loathing.

_That girl though, the oldest child—she's a right beauty in any light. Might be I could forgive her eating habits if she'd come keep my bedrolls warms at night. _

Catie. Catie Stark, her name was, he could recall. _Winter's Heir. _Named after her fish-eyed grandmother. The Rightful Queen's only child; and the target he had come all the way from the far North to claim for the darkness. A shame really; she was too beautiful to lay to waste; freshly flowered, maybe ten and four, or perhaps ten and five? Among her siblings and cousins she stood out like a direwolf among wolves; the others laughed and played, brooded or talked, but little princess Catie Stark met his eyes with a smile. She sat upright in her chair as properly as could be expected of a young queen that knew herself to be no longer a child.

_I wonder if her hand has already been promised to a fine southern gentleman; if the Stark wolf-child would be married soon. Is she even still a maid? _

The though came from nowhere, quick and unbidden, and made him uncomfortably upset for some reason. Suren was never meant to understand the kneelers' concept of marriage; _why would a girl want to stand behind an unproven man? Why did the southern women just accept such conquest peacefully?_ A freefolk spearwife would slit the husband's throat gladly if he was a coward.

The other children were, for the most part, younger, and observably less impressive. A tall, serious-faced lad with a mop of red hair (kissed by fire, this one) cuffed playfully with a small skinny blond teen; to their right, a sullen boy with long dark locks and long Stark-ish face gazed into his soup so morosely, Suren though for a second he was about to fall asleep. At the far end of the table, a dark-haired girl ignored the plate in front of her entirely, having her nose buried deep in a book—Suren couldn't read the letters on the spine to tell what the book might be about, though he was curious as to what could possibly be more interesting than roast goat. A small red-headed girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old, sat on the Queen of Winter's lap, babbling happily amid her endless smiles.

_Well at least no red eyes in the bunch, if one of them's a demonness, they're hiding it bloody well._

The Queens of Winterfell made no effort to include the free folk into their conversations, which was fine enough with Suren. _It would have been difficult anyways; they're all the way on the other side of the table. _So instead he spoke with the Winterfell man to his right—the captain of the queens guardsmen, conjuring up pointless smalltalk to pass the time, and making every effort to ignore Vespar's snivelly attempts to insert himself into their conversation. The guardsman was very interested in everything Suren had to say about life beyond the wall, the free folks' interactions with the Night's Watch, and especially every word Suren possibly had to say about Lord Commander Jon Snow.

_Snow. Why does the topic always come back to that ugly crow-face?_

He was the first thing the Queens had asked about also. As with them, Suren tried to keep his answers brief and nondescriptive, lying as little as possible.

Have you seen the Queen's bastard brother Jon Snow?

_Yes_

How is he fairing up at the Wall?

_Well 'nough; much less busy this winter than last, if you know what I mean._

Is it true he has a Valyrian steel blade?

_Yes, dragonsteel, we call it; I've seen the blade myself._

Three questions and only half lies. Suren Icebane always tried his best.

The ringing of a tiny little bell signaling the end of dinner saved him from trying to skirt away from the topic of Jon Snow. Looking towards the head of the table, Suren saw that Sansa Stark had stood up, her red hair a waterfall of curls cascading down over the blue straps of her gown, down her back. Every eye in the Great Hearth feasted on her now, drinking her in as she walked, step by quiet step, down from her place at the High Table, past hundreds of enraptured eyes, until she stood tall and proud at the center of the hall, her smiling eyes meeting with those of her disfigured husband, who remained seated.

A pair of dark haired boys, so alike in appearance that they had to be twins, ran up jovially to join her from the cloud of smallfolk. One carried a lute in the crook of his arm, the other a small guitar.

Suren found himself holding his breath as Sansa Stark began to sing.

For a brief flash, the quiet guitar chords brought back the image of Mance Rayder, singing and smiling with words of giants and dragons and Dorne hot upon his lips. The image hurt. Mance was dead, tortured and murdered by a kneeler butcher. _He was better than all of us. The true image itself of what a king should be. Comparing this Sansa Stark to his memory is a blasphemy._

The Queen of Winter sang of wolves.

_The winter night lay long and dark; the winter night lay cold_

_Across the barren field was spied a wolf with eyes of gold_

Around the room, some of the small folk joined in. They obviously knew the song well enough. Even the women at the High Table were singing, the False Queen and the Rightful Queen (and precious little Winter's Heir) smiling prettily as their delicate little mouths enunciated every syllable.

_Alone, amid the blowing wind, the lone wolf padded through _

_Until he tipped his head and howled—his brothers all withdrew_

(The music continued on without Sansa's voice for a moment here, as the hall broke into a cacophony of howls)

_From rock and ice and brook and shore, the pack came pouring back_

_Back home again they chased the call_

_The white, the gray, the black_

_Back home again they chased the call_

_The white, the gray, the black_

_To Winterfell, the wolves returned; to Winterfell they ran!_

_ To homely hearth and winterbrew, to halls of stone and man_

_And in the woods, the weirwood's face welcomes her children here_

_The people sing and laugh and dance, forgetting all their fear_

_From rock and ice and brook and shore, the pack comes pouring back_

_Back home again they chased the call_

_The white, the gray, the black_

_Back home again they chased the call_

_The white, the gray, the black!_

_For even if the lone wolf dies, the pack survives the fall_

_ A wolf's true home is in the north, and north remembers all!_

She finished her song with a smile and a flourish, and the entirety of the hall erupted in happy shouts, whistles, and clapping. The Queen of Winter bowed deeply at the waist, a display of humility towards her subjects, as both the Rightful Queen and the False Queen shimmied down from their seats at the High Table to join her at the center of the room. Queen Jeyne Westerling spoke up first, quieting the raucous crowd.

"People of Winterfell," her queen's voice boomed, "though my cousin's visit from the Wall has been delayed, I am happy with did not have to completely forego our plans for the feast. Tonight we dine with free folk heralding from the great north beyond the Wall, who only recently have forged friendship with our kin. May our camaraderie last long and bear bountiful fruits!" She raised up a glass of white arbor wine for a toast.

"To our friends in the north!"

"To our friends in the north!" the hall echoed, as a thousand sets of hand lifted a thousand glasses to a thousand pairs of lips.

The False Queen, Lady Jeyne Poole spoke up next, her voice softer than Jeyne Westerling's.

"We have prepared some foodstuffs and goods for our guests to take with them on the road back north, if they will it. Food that will keep on the road. The Greatjohn will accept you as a guest at Last Hearth should you choose to go that route. His halls are warm, and any friend of the Starks in Winterfell is a friend of the Umbers, I promise you this. We are pleased to extend Winterfell's warmest regards to you, m'Lord Suren Icebane and all your fine freefolk."

Suren, (and Vespar and Kiviq Snowbear, for that matter) visibly cringed at the word "m'Lord," but smiled genuinely enough to not let it show._ These kneelers mean well_, _and I must stay on their good side for now._

The Queens acted surprised when Suren stood up suddenly, grabbing an object from under the table and shuffling down to join them on the floor. In an instant, The Queen of Winter's gruff husband was on his heels close behind him, hand on his swordbelt, nothing if not suspicious of the wildling's intentions. _Like a trained guard dog, this one. I'd best stay on guard._

"My lady, Queen Jeyne Westerling, if you'd give me the time, I have a gift I'd like to give to your fine lady daughter. Something I've brought from my homeland, rare and wonderful. Your bastard brother on the wall wanted the girl to have it, he told me myself. It'll serve her well for many years."

Jeyne Westerling smiled, and beckoned gently for her only daughter to come down from the table to join them.

"Go ahead, good Suren."

Suren took one last hard look at Clegane, just to be safe, before taking action.

With a smile and a quick twist of his hand, the freeman pulled the thin brown cloth covering the parcel off and unto the ground. Catie Stark gasped in giddy excitement when she saw the contents.

It was alive.

Underneath the cloth were the rusted iron bars of a large birdcage, and sitting on a perch within the cage was the largest, whitest falcon any of the kneelers had seen in their lives. Eyes blacker than coal, a bright yellow beak with a dangerous notch, and white feathers broken with subtle black mottling on the bird's back, wings, and tail. Every feather perfect.

"A gyrfalcon, my lady. For hawking. In the north, they are the bird of kings, and they breed only far past the wall, in freefolk lands. It's a young bird, too; should be simple enough to train up. I reckon you'll be the only lady south of the Wall to fly a proper gyr."

"I love it," said Catie, her voice reverent and sincere. Suren could tell by her eyes that she was not lying.

_My work here is done._

Suren bowed and returned to his seat, knowing that he'd doomed the girl to a fate worse than death.

A/N- We'll meet the children a bit better in the next chapter—I'm gonna try for chapter POVs in GRRM style; I'm anticipating this to be a longish work, perhaps if it's still going I'll continue work on it for NaNoWriMo come November. Thanks for reading!


	2. Sansa I

**2. Sansa Stark**

"My lady, there's been a raven. From Sunspear, if remember rightly."

_Dark wings, dark words_, flashed in Sansa's mind before she dismissed the thought abruptly. If it was from Sunspear, it was likely good tidings. _There is no reason this winter should be as bleak as the last._

The head of the Queens' household guards stood in the doorway. Koscha Rivers bowed his head in her presence, as always, wearing an impeccable face of respect and honor. He was dressed simply in grey roughspun, wearing a modest layer of boiled leather and light mail, the Stark direwolf emblazoned on his breast.

After years at the receiving end of his service, Sansa Stark had come to respect Koscha just as much as he seemed to respect her. And why not? The young man was bested only by her Sandor in the practice yard, and he had always gotten along so well with the children. _So what if he was a bastard-born of the Riverlands, not a northman by birth?_ All honest people were welcome in Winterfell, regardless of what they were running from.

Of course, because Koscha wouldn't speak a word about the identity of his parents, Sansa half suspected he was a Frey bastard_, but even then it wouldn't matte_r, she reminded herself. Koscha had proved himself trustworthy and would always be welcome in Winterfell. _At least he doesn't carry the Frey looks; it would be painful to have that in my sight every day if that was the case._

"Thank you, Koscha. I'm sure Lady Jeyne will be pleased." In Winterfell, there was Lady Jeyne and there was Queen Jeyne, and if the post was what she thought it was, it was Lady Jeyne her childhood friend that would be most interested.

Now, if you happen to see my Sandor in the practice yard, send him up my direction, would you?"

"Of course, my lady."

"Oh, and the ladies and I are going out with our girls tomorrow. I'd like you to join us—we'll leave at four past the hour of the wolf for a long trek into the Wolfswood. An early departure is necessary to take advantage of the winter sun. Could you saddle horses for five plus yourself?"

"I'll be happy to join you and the girls. See you in the morn, Lady Stark."

"And you as well, Koscha Rivers. Rest well, we'll have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

Koscha handed her the note and a small vial that had come with the raven, then, bowing once again, turned and left the room, his longsword swaying comfortably from his swordbelt.

_I can see why Catie fancies him; he is the perfect image of a proper knight in everything but name. Too bad he does not come from a noble family, as there is a man I would be comfortable with bedding my niece._

After everything she had gone through to get to where she was—the deaths of her parents and her brother Robb, her first marriage into the foul Lannister clan, all the long days she spent living as a bastard under Petyr Baelish—it seemed to Sansa such a relief that her chief concern now was finding suitable marriages for the royal children.

_Winter is here again, but this time the realm is at peace and we are well-stocked for food. Peace has been forged to the north, and the just Queen Daenerys rules to the south. I am married to the man I love and have three precious children to carry on my blood. The wolves have returned to Winterfell. What more could I ask for?_

_ Perhaps I'd ask for a little more freedom to let our children marry whomever they want. _

Sansa's eldest was thirteen; little Edon who looked so much like Robb, so she knew that at least she had a few years to prepare yet before finding an adequate suitor for her little boy._ He will always be a babe in my eyes—how is he growing up so quickly? _The thoughtof Edon taking up the responsibility of marriage scared her to the bone; the thought of him in battle was even worse. _I can now understand some of what Cersei told me about motherhood._

And so far, Edon still entertained dreams of knighthood and even working his way into Daenerys's Queensguard in King's Landing, an idea that made her husband Sandor Clegane visibly cringe. Perhaps a marriage wouldn't even be necessary. Her second son, Kupor—who had inherited the Clegane looks—was only 11 yet, and her youngest, Brenda, was only four. _Young souls with their entire lives ahead of them, living in a time of peace._

Sansa felt sorry for Jeyne Westerling; her Catie was fourteen now, approaching fifteen, and as Catie was the heir to Winterfell, Jeyne was being pressured from all directions to find her a good match. Through the course of the past several months, Jeyne had received serious offers from a Dornish princeling, Tomnem Lannister's son, Greatjohn Umber's grandson, the heir to house Farwynd of the Lonely Light, a Manderly, a Tarly, even some Summer Islander prince; basically marriage offers were coming in from everywhere, houses great and small from all over Westeros, and beyond. Some sent bribes, some sent love letters, some sent offers of soldiers or weaponry, others sent threats. It all made Sansa want to vomit, to see all the proud men fighting over her niece's claim like animals over a scrap of meat. _She should be able to marry who she wants, to marry for love like I did, but making a solid political match is so important for maintaining the peace…_

_At least Catie will remain at Winterfell. The husband must join our household. We can protect her better than I was protected._

Uncertainty clouded Sansa's head like the dense, dark rainclouds of a northern thunderstorm, as she draped her white hare fur cloak over her shoulders, unable to stop thinking about the justness and necessity of unsavory political child marriages. Jeyne Poole's chambers were below her own, but the halls in the new Queen's Tower were cold and damp from the winter chill.

Sansa was just reaching for the elaborately carved doorhandle when the door suddenly swung open of its own accord, nearly making her jump out of her skin. _Gods_! The woman standing outside was bundled up in a thick black cloak and a heavy shawl over her head, and though her face was not very well visible, Sansa immediately recognized her old friend Jeyne, and could tell straightaway that she was upset. _Queens do not cry; no one must see us shed tears. Better to hide behind a shawl than show our pain on our faces and prove the weakness of our sex._

"The raven came," said Sansa, allowing herself a quiet smile as she led Jeyne into her own chamber and invited her to sit. "We have good friends in Dorne, and if I'm told rightly, the Dornishmen are as renowned at creating medicines as they are with creating poisons. There's still hope."

Jeyne sniffled and smiled back, but the smile looked forced, as if she's already given up hope long ago, or had dismissed rumors of its very existence. Her makeup was streaked with obvious tear-treads. Even without the ugly mark on her nose she would never be beautiful, not like Sansa or Jeyne Westerling.

"He's getting worse though, Sansa. If you really knew him you'd understand. He's suffered enough, you know, and part of me feels it would be better just to give him mercy with a knife through the heart than to watch him slowly fade away, and in pain." Her voice was high pitched and whiney, grating unpleasantly on Sansa's ears.

_Stop talking about death, it doesn't suit you, _she thought. Sansa hunted for the right words to say.

"He's a fighter though, and I think Theon deserves more than for us to give up on him just yet, wouldn't you agree?"

Jeyne broke down into a fresh volley of tears at her words.

Sansa could remember all too well the broken man that Theon Greyjoy had been all those years ago when they had been reunited after her return to the north. Unrecognizable. Mentally, he had been a total, unstable ruin, and physically he had been barely more than a slight wisp of flesh looped around some bones. Recovery had been slow and painful, and Sansa didn't think it had ever really been truly complete.

Sansa remembered she had cried, unbidden and openly, when, after receiving her pardon for his role in the sack of Winterfell, he had dragged his weak frame over towards her, and, kneeling and prostrate, had kissed her feet. She had cried again when the not-quite-as-broken Kraken prince draped his cloak of protection over Lady Jeyne's shoulders, but this time the tears were tears of happiness.

Jeyne had bounced back so much more quickly from her sufferings than Theon had, despite the swollen pregnant belly Ramsay Bolton had left her as a cruel parting gift. If it had been Sansa in Jeyne's place, she would have found it difficult not to drown Ramsay's child, or feed it to the wolves as soon as it was born.

_No, Jeyne has strength in her too_. Sansa must remember that.

Things had improved after winter's end.

Jeyne Westerling invited Jeyne Poole to share their crown, understanding the truth behind Theon's betrayal and that Theon and Robb used to be like brothers. Theon spent hour after hour in the practice yard trying to regain some measure of prowess with the bow (the weakness in his arms—and his lack of confidence—had proven to be more problematic than the missing fingers). One of Theon's bastard children from the coast had even been brought back to Winterfell to be raised among the wolves, providing a sibling figure for the Bolton girl.

Everything had been going so much better until Theon had come down deathly ill three or four moons ago, with an illness no one had been able to confidently diagnose, and the maesters had found no success trying to treat. Now he lay weak and bedridden, slipping in and out of coherence; when he was awake, he didn't seem to know where he was or what was happening.

"He wakes up screaming all the time, Sansa!" Jeyne managed to spit, amid her sobs. "At least once a night, sometimes more…calling for Robb, or apologizing, or begging Ramsay not to cut him. I just can't, Sansa… It's too much; I can't take it. It's breaking my heart into a million tiny pieces! I'd rather him be dead than reliving that every night, you understand?"

Sansa understood. Theon had gone through torture no man should ever be forced through. _But to give up hope and wish him dead instead of suffering, I don't know if I could ever wish that. Not on a man I love._

If Sansa ever lost Sandor, she didn't know what she would do. How Jeyne Westerling managed to sit the throne without a man behind her was a mystery to Sansa. Sandor was her rock, her confidence, her go-to person when she needed help—though he was no king. She laughed inwardly at the irony of it all—Sandor Clegane and Theon Greyjoy were probably the only two men in all of Westeros who would turn down the kingship of Winterfell when it was offered to them.

Jeyne continued to cry as Sansa moved her chair over next to her, reaching out an arm around her friend and holding her as she rocked forwards and backwards, the tears coming harder now. Her white hare-fur cloak contrasted sharply with the black wool of Jeyne's shawl. _It's alright,_ thought Sansa, _let it all out, then you'll feel better._ _I'm here for you, and so is Jeyne Westerling. We are your sisters and we love you._ Her own vision started to blur around the edges, and it was with surprise Sansa realized she was crying as well. It felt good to cry again.

The cool stone floor of the Queen's tower echoed with each footstep as she climbed the winding staircase back up from Jeyne's chambers, after leaving her friend with the unconscious (but still breathing) form of her husband and a vial of precious medicine from Dorne. Sansa didn't dare tell Lady Jeyne how much it had cost. It didn't matter. Life was worth more than gold. She just prayed it would work. _Please, Mother, have mercy on your poor children—they've suffered enough already, Theon and Jeyne more than most._

The torches burned low, and Sansa could see the steam from her breath floating in the air before her as she walked, shivering even under her layers. The wind howled like a wailing ghost, beating on the walls of the tower, reminding her of the way Theon would call out for Robb in the middle of the night. Yes, winter had returned. As if she needed more reminders. It was still early in the season, and things were already starting to fall apart.

Her own room was at the very top of the tower—Jeyne Westerling and her daughter Catie lived in her parents old quarters— and it afforded a spectacular view of the city and the wilderness beyond, though tonight all she could see was blackness. The night was overcast, and even the stars were hidden away, leaving the sky barren. It was colder up here, and later into the winter, she might have to move to a different room in the depths of the castle, but for now, it was perfect.

Without a torch burning, the room was shrouded in such absolute darkness that at first she did not notice her husband's strong body sitting up on her bed.

"Some nerve you've got," he rasped harshly, his grating voice probably the result of damage to his throat and lungs done when his brother shoved his face into flame. "Begging me up here from the armory just to have me find an empty room. You're a wily little temptress, Lady Stark."

She hugged Sandor tight, noticing that his chest was bare under her hands, loving his warmth and the gentle rise and fall of his breath. He smelled like sweat and man, just as he should.

"I'm sorry, Jeyne Poole needed me; she's losing her husband and I'm worried about her."

She felt him nodding in understanding as Sandor pulled her down onto his lap, embracing her tenderly as his muscular arms draped around her back. His lips found first her forehead, then her cheek, and finally her lips. Sansa raised one of her hands up to the scarred side of his face as she pulled him closer, deepening the kiss into something fierce and passionate, erasing any distance between them until she could feel his heart pounding against her own.

With her other hand, she reached down and started unlacing his breeches, feeling his breathing hitch as she started stroking his cock with well-practiced motions, knowing the best ways to excite him. Sandor moaned at the loss when Sansa pulled away from his kiss, but quickly forgave her when she went down on him, taking his manhood in her mouth as deep as she could, bobbing her head as she teased the tip of him before taking him in deep again.

"Oh, Sansa," he gasped quickly, head tilted back. "I love you and you feel so good." His voice was breathless and ripe with pleasure.

She stayed silent, focused on the task at hand as she now began to play with his balls, feeling one of his large hands clasp tightly on the back of her head as he encouraged her to take him in deeper. She gladly obliged, becoming intensely aroused by the small pleasured noises she was drawing from him, by the way his breathing became faster and more ragged with every motion.

"Sansa," he crooned again, now with a hint of desperation in his broken voice. "Little bird." _He's close._

She had meant to drive him right to the edge, winding him up without tipping him over so that he could take her properly and spill his seed in her (Sansa so badly wanted his seed to quicken in her again, wanted so badly another child). She wound him up too much, though, and he came quicker than she had expected him to, helpless and hard in her mouth, her name like honey on his lips. Surprised, she swallowed his seed the best she could, working him through his peak as she felt his grip on the back of her head soften.

_Oh well,_ she thought slyly, _the night is still young. It seems I am doomed not to get enough sleep tonight. The girls will just have to put up with me tired and grumpy tomorrow._

Still coming down from his climax, Sandor lay heavily on the bed, sighing happily as Sansa began to kiss him deeply again.


	3. Catie I

**3. Catie Stark**

The weather changed quickly. Within a short quarter hour, the clear cold cerulean sky above the Wolfswood had been painted over in a palette of dull stormy grey, and the air was heavy with the scent of a looming snowstorm.

_So we __**are**__ going to get snowed on. Septa Tulease was right_, Catie thought sourly. _Nothing will be out flying in the snow, and this whole trip will have been a waste of time. And we have already ridden so far... _

She chastised herself for even being surprised. Unpredictable weather changes were common enough in the north, especially during the early winter, and Catie Stark was a child of Winterfell, daughter to the Queen in the North and Child of the Great Winter, named Winter's Heir by the smallfolk. She was no stranger to the rapid dips and turns of northern weather. It was a part of her, just as much as the brown hair on her head or the skin on her nose.

She hoped sincerely that her lady mother would not make them turn back; at least not yet, before the snowclouds had even begun to release their fury down on them. There was always a chance the clouds would pass by harmlessly.

It was still early in the winter, and only a foot of snow lay on the ground they tread upon.

It had been a long (and early) morning ride out into the wilderness north of Winterfell, and such a promising start to the day would be wasted if they never even set up to try to trap hunting hawks for Kellen and Lillyth. A sudden and overwhelming spark of interest in raptors and hawking had been ignited last night by her wildling gift, and Catie could not wait to able to share the passion with her friends; training together, flying together, hunting together. Still, it had been difficult to leave Frostbite—that was the name she chose—alone in her mews this morning, so badly did she want to start working with her. _Patience. A queen will need her patience._

She needn't have worried about the snow; her lady mother Jeyne Westerling, widow to the late King Robb Stark, was paying the clouds only passing attention, too caught up in amiable conversation with her friends Lady Sansa Stark and Lady Jeyne Poole to worry about such trifling concerns as the weather. While Queen Jeyne kept up an impressive front of queenliness and regality when in the public eye, much of the sternness fell away from her while she was alone with her friends and family; she seemed an entirely different person. Open, happy; full of laughter and sunshine. It was easy to forget she was not born a northerner.

They talked too much for Catie's taste—the young princess of Winterfell liked long rides by herself where she could listen to birdsong and the whispers of wind in the trees, and was largely uninterested in the gossiping of the older women who talked too much about politics and men and cooking to keep her honestly interested (though she could always feign interest if she was hard-pressed into it—a skill every ruler-to-be should have. And men _were_ seeming more interesting to her these days as well).

"Are we there yet, mama?" asked Brenda, Sansa's youngest—a child of 4—who was riding with Sansa on her graceful chestnut mare. It seemed Catie wasn't the only one who was bored with the riding and longed to get started.

"Almost, my dove." Sansa answered her lovingly, running her hand through her daughter's thick copper-colored hair, nearly the same shade as her own. Sansa's blue eyes looked drained, as if she needed a nap. "Just another half league and we can dismount and set up. I brought lunch!"

"Lunch!" Brenda repeated with excitement, holding her hands up above her head.

Brenda's two elder brothers, Edon and Kupor, had stayed home with Lord Sandor to practice at swords and arrows. _Boys. Foolish foolish foolish. They don't know what they are missing—birds are much more fun. They are alive; swords are just cold, hard steel. Lifeless. _

Catie let herself drift away from the conversation as it turned into a rather boring discussion of the lunch menu for the day, urging her horse gently forward until she was on the heels of Kellen and Lillyth's bay gelding. She could care less whether they ate boiled brown quail eggs or white quail eggs; they could eat snake eggs for all she cared, as long as they filled her belly.

Kellen's Russet was a beautiful horse, tall and strong. Though he had only lived in Winterfell for part of his young life, Kellen Pyke had proven himself to be a natural rider, and was urging Russ forward until he was right on the heels of their foreguard, the dashing bastard Koscha Rivers, Winterfell's Master of Arms. Despite Lillyth's arms tight around his chest, Kellen noticed Catie approaching and haled her.

"And why do we have to go so far out to trap, m'Lady of Winterfell?" he said teasingly, his messy blond hair a flurry on top his head. "Are there no hawks flying nearer the castle walls?"

"Because the field hawks nested out here this year, that's why. And might be, we could even catch a merlin, or a peregrine, if we trapped along the riverbanks. What do you want to fly?"

"I'll take whatever comes," Kellen replied with a smile. "Whatever I get, I don't think it'd stand a chance compared to your gyr. Beautiful bird, that one. Fit for a king. Or a queen." He winked at her playfully before turning away.

Catie felt herself blushing at the complement—why did it seem Kellen could always make her blush lately?—and then felt bad for ignoring Lillyth. Despite being a northern girl if ever one there was, Lillyth was a shamefully dismal horse rider, though already all of 13 years old, she could hardly ride a half-sized pony, let alone a proper horse. Without Kellen there to support her, she would surely fall off into the mud. Catie felt sorry for the girl, but also felt ashamed to be feeling sorry for her.

Lillyth belonged to Jeyne Poole but not to Theon, Kellen belonged to Theon but not to Jeyne; as the couple could have no children together. It was a complicated situation and an odd patchwork family, but to Catie Stark they were her cousins, her blood, just as truly as Sansa's brood. All the good times shared together were far more relevant than a splotch of ink on some ratty old family tree.

"And you, Lillyth? What do you want to catch?"

"Something easy to take care of. Maybe a little kestrel," Lillyth responded forlornly, not looking at Catie because her blue eyes were focused straight ahead in concentration. She was obviously still worried about falling off the horse.

"I don't want to catch something just to have it die on me, and I know I'm not very good at these sort of things. The only things I'm good at are reading and writing."

_Can't argue with that one, I guess. No one could possibly be worse at horseback riding or self-defense than Lilly Bolton… _

All three of the queens (and Sandor and Theon, too) had insisted on all the children, even the girls, learning the basics of knifeplay, swordsmanship, and arrows. _You don't have to go seeking battle to die by the blade. _

Catie loved it, and she was quick to imitate her fierce Clegane cousins, picking up the basics much more rapidly than anyone had expected. But it was so difficult to hold back laughter when Lillyth was in the yard—she was big-boned and husky, and too clumsy to even land a solid strike on a straw soldier. Yes, young lady Bolton was best left to her books.

The snow was still looming when Sansa shouted out, "We're here!"

Jumping off the horses, they flew across the ground as fast as their young legs could carry them, making for the little patch of open snow between the forest and Foxfoot Creek.

"A perfect place to trap," Lady Jeyne Poole had told Catie earlier this morning, before they had mounted up and headed out. Lady Jeyne's eyes always looked so far away when she was reminiscing about the past, and she seemed abnormally sad as of late, probably because of her husband's illness.

"When I was a girl, lady Sansa and I caught twin merlins here, young birds, brother and sister from the looks of them; both came diving from the sky on the same dove, and the two wound up netted side by side. It's a good spot—the hawks coming in have a clear view of our set from up above, but there is enough cover nearby to give them the confidence to come in and hit."

Catie knew enough about hawking to know that it was most likely they'd end up with a field hawk or a tiny little kestrel, the most abundant raptors in this sort of habitat. However, woodhawks and even regal goshawks were sighted occasionally in the dense boreal treecover of the Wolfswood, peregrines nested on rocky cliff faces just a ways further up the creekbed, and a merlin (or even an eagle) was always a possibility.

_I already have a bird, _she thought fondly, thinking back to Frostbite tressed up so carefully in her new home, and also back to the wildlings who had given her the beautiful gift. The wildling leader had been a striking young man; eyes of ebony and hair almost Targaryen-white, which he wore long and loose past his shoulders. The two accompanying them were older and ugly—the big one had seemed sort of like a wildling version of the Greatjon, the small one looked almost like a rat with crooked teeth and close-set eyes. But that Suren—if he was a knight or a lord and not a wildling, she would have begged her parents to let him be the one she married. _Why are the men I fall for always lowborn or wildlings or bastards?_

_Enough of that_. Thinking about marriage made her sick. She was already ten and four, but did not want to grow up just yet.

_Back to the task at hand; it's my friends we're trapping for and I want them to get birds just as magnificent as mine. Focus._

_Speaking of beautiful bastards_…Blond-headed bastard Koscha Rivers was helping Sansa take the equipment off her mare—half a dozen thin wooden poles, three square nets—each about 4 feet by 4 feet, and two strange looking small wire cages that Catie had no idea how to use. The cages were empty, but tied to the top of each were around two dozen small twine nooses, each tied with a slippery knot.

Catie's mother, carrying a snow-white dove in each hand, saw her confusion, and explained, "When a hawk comes down to try to get at the bait in the cages, his feet get caught in the nooses and he can't fly away." She loaded one dove in each of the box traps, and began helping Kellen and Koscha set up the nets around the third dove.

Instead of being held in a cage, the last dove was tethered to the ground, with enough slack in the line that it could get about two feet off the ground if it tried to fly. Three drop-nets were set up surrounding it; their four corners pinned lightly to the wooden poles in a detachable manner, so that they could drop and entangle any raptor that hits it. With both boys working on it, setup was completed in no time.

"And now we wait," said Jeyne Westerling, a smile burning bright on her lovely features. "The hard part is waiting."

Lunch was cucumber sandwiches with brown spotted quail eggs, pickled mushrooms, bread pudding, and lemoncakes. Catie ate voraciously, her empty belly rumbling with hunger from their long trek through the snow. Even little Brenda ate an entire lemoncake, apparently holding her mother's fondness for the tart little treats.

"Is Uncle Jon ever going to come visit us from the north? Or Aunt Arya? I would so like for her to come visit Winterfell again," asked Catie, trying to make conversation now that food intake had slowed to a steady crawl.

"I'm sure Arya will come visit again sometime soon," said her aunt Sansa quietly, as if she was unsure she wanted her younger sellsword sister interacting with her children, however much the children enjoyed her sassiness and her lessons with the sword. "I'm worried about Jon—we were expecting him, but after we heard he was held up, we haven't heard a word from the Wall about any new plans he might be making. I'm sure winter is much more difficult up that far north—hopefully they didn't send him out beyond the wall again." Sansa yawned as if bored, before reaching for another quail egg, her body language seemed to shrug away the suggestion she was worried.

"Why can't we go to him?" asked Lillyth, already on her second sandwhich. "I want to see the wall, and I've heard from Septa Tulease that they have an interesting library with rare books and artifacts from north of the Wall."

"If you want books you should go to King's Landing," her not-quite-brother Kellen interjected. "They have the largest library in all Westeros, so many books that you'd die of old age before you've read half of them."

They both looked up at Jeyne Poole pleadingly. Kellen had never been to King's Landing, and last time Lillyth had been there she was so young she could scarcely remember it. It was no secret they wanted desperately to visit.

Jeyne just looked tired; Catie noted she had hardly eaten any of the food on her plate.

"I'll think about it," she answered quietly. "Now lets just focus on catching birds for you two. I think it's time to go check the traps."

Catie and Kellen ran pell-mell back into the clearing, as each footstep sprayed a flurry of snow up into the cold winter air. The sky was already beginning to darken, though it was only early afternoon—days were short in the northern winter. Lillyth trailed behind them at a steady canter, her short legs working hard as she tried to keep up with her more athletic relatives.

"We got one! We got one! We got one!" Kellen shouted, jumping up and down in excitement as he ran back from the traps, obviously needing help freeing the raptor. "Oh, please can I keep it, mama?" he said, looking to Jeyne Poole, who was his mother only in practice. "Lil can take the next one—we're bound to get another!"

Koscha Rivers did the honor of taking the bird off the trap—both feet were entangled in the nooses on one of the box contraptions, though he was quickly freed under Koscha's nimble fingers. He held the bird up for all to see, then went about looking the hawk over for any signs of injury or poor health.

Catie recognized the markings on the bird as those of a field hawk, a strong soaring raptor that often hunted from perches. It had the bright yellow eyes and brown-striped that distinguished it as a first-year bird, likely one of the last sets of young that the local nesting parents had been able to fledge before summer changed to winter. When it would acquire its adult plumage, the yellow eyes would turn brown and the brown striped tail would be replaced with one of pure fiery red. A good bird for hawking.

Everyone was silent and huddled around Koscha as he looked the bird over, waiting impatiently for his prognosis.

"Seems to be in good enough shape. Nothing's broken and no obvious injuries from getting caught. His feathers are perfect. I'd guess he's a male just by the size of him. He's skinny, though—damn near starving, in fact; probably young birds are struggling to get through their first winter. Not an ounce of fat on this guy. Probably lucky that he got caught. I think he'll suffice, though. Seems you got yourself a bird, Kellen."

The youngster's face broke into an honest, toothy grin as he ran to go get the falconer's hood to cover the bird's eyes, to calm the field hawk down until he could get used to his new mews in Winterfell. He'd be boxed for the long ride back to the castle.

"Isn't he beautiful, sis?" Kellen said as he showed his hooded hawk to Lillyth, who was standing back from the group awkwardly. "We'll make sure we get one just as nice for you to fly, little lady. I promise ya. And if we don't, I'll share this one, and we'll fly him together with Catie and her Frostbite. Won't we Catie?"

"Of course," Catie answered, trying to smile honestly at Lillyth, but feeling fake. The Bolton girl would probably be just as horrific at hawking as she was at horseback riding or weaponry, but being nice never hurt anyone, did it?

Jeyne Poole ruffled the wispy hair on Kellen's head proudly, looking positively happy for the first time all day.

"I think we can give it at least another hour or two before we should head back. Either way, we'll be traveling—and might be trapping, even—in the dark. Maybe we'll get an owl." Lady Jeyne Poole's voice was only half-joking.

The second wait was more difficult, as they had already eaten most of the food and were left trying to make small talk to pass the time. Of course, Lillyth had brought one of her books with her, and had her nose buried so deep in it, it was useless trying to include her in conversation. Catie noticed that the spine read, "The Life and Death of King Robert Baratheon" in bold gold print, and wondered how anyone in their right mind would want to read such a heavy historical volume in their spare time.

The three queens just chitchatted boisterously among themselves, but Catie heard her name come up in conversation a number of times before realizing they were talking about all the marriage proposals they had received asking for her hand. _Eww_. That she did _not_ want to hear about, so she moved away from the grown-ups and started talking hawks with Koscha and Kellen, listening to the older boy's tales of taking out pheasants and rabbits with his peregrine. Maybe they would have to include Koscha on their group hunts—he was only a few years older than Kellen, after all, but likely two busy with his Queensguard duties to spend time with the princess and her friends. He certainly seemed to know a lot about hawking though, for being such a young man.

They waited, somewhat impatiently, for an hour and a half, chatting together amiably under the sentinels, when the promised snowfall finally began. Large, wet flakes fell serenely from the heavens, melting as they hit hair, hat, or coat. Catie swirled in the snow, enjoying every flake; being forced to dodge a snowball that Kellen sent floating her way. The next one hit—looking behind her, she saw it had come from her mother; the High Queen herself getting in on the action. A flurry of snowball volleys continued until everyone was laughing and cold. It was only then that they walked out to check the traps.

On first glance, everything looked empty, and it was with disappointment that the boys moved to break the equipment down in the snow, trying to hurry so they could return to their warm beds in the bowels of Winterfell. They were only two dozen yards from the traps when a bullet of a bird flew past them, so low it was almost at eye level. Catie could feel the rush of wind as it sailed past her head, going in for the dove on the ground that was surrounded by standing nets. At the last second it slowed, as if seeing the nets, but it was too late to avoid and it hit high, bringing the net down around it, struggling desperately to get it. Kellen ran like a banshee through the snow to get to the bird, it was fighting the net, almost out already—by the time Kellen secured it only its head and feet were caught, and it was an act of pure bravado for the young man to reach out for the bird without getting footed by its sharp talons.

"It's a goshawk!" he yelled, excited. "It's huge! Just as big as my field hawk! Young and beautiful, it's so big it's got to be a female! Come look at your bird, Lillyth! And bring the hood!"

For once, Lillyth ran as fast as she could, seeming genuinely excited about her capture, beaming up a smile at her older brother. The queens were all smiles as well, looking fierce and lovely and full of the north as they stood in the falling snow.

Catie ran next to Lillyth to check out the goshawk—she had only seen them occasionally in the wild. The bird was streaked brown on white, with a patch of white feathers branding his face like an eyebrow. A first year bird. Next year when it would molt in its adult feathers, Catie knew they would come in gray, and its yellow eye would change gradually to deep, dark, red.


	4. Jeyne P I

**AN: Wow, a combination of busy-ness with work, writer's block, and lack of inspiration caused writing this to take a really long time. Still not sure if I'm happy with it…**

**Jeyne P. I**

Running in the snow brought back too many memories.

She left little bits of herself scattered behind her—a square of fabric torn off her dress stuck to a prickly shrub branch, an earring pulled off and left to shine pointlessly in the mud, a drop of her blood painting an ill-placed thorn. Pieces of Jeyne Poole making up some kind of sick abstract art lay lost in the woods of Winterfell. Again, she inwardly cursed the shortness of her legs and the weakness in her thighs.

_I cannot lose him. Theon's life depends on it. I am a Queen. I can be strong; I have to do this._

She ran like her life had no meaning, wishing with every footstep that she could sprout wings and fly through the cold air like her daughter's goshawk. The fear of frostbite, even if it meant having her toes turn black and fall off, meant nothing in comparison to the fear of failure. She just had to catch him. There was no other choice.

The moon was her guide, illuminating her white-clad form as they crashed through the underbrush like some hideous role-reversal of a rabbit chasing a deadly wolf. The wolf, bounding away ahead of her at an impossible speed, was none other then Koscha Rivers, black-cloaked and sporting a mop of shiny golden-blonde hair, like a miniature moon bouncing along in the woods ahead of her. In the distance, he seemed to glow.

It was not just a mirage. Koscha floated. Each step through the trees, improbably, no, impossibly fast, as though he was a part of the forest itself, a flame among shadows_. Where was he taking her_? _Could she trust him? Was he even human? _Jeyne wasn't sure of anything anymore. In a world where the dead walked and dragons sat behind the Iron Throne, was it even a stretch to believe in black magic?

The taste of sorcery had indeed been strong upon her lips when Koscha had entered her chambers earlier that evening, gracious and impeccable as the head of the Queen's personal guard always was. Nothing special or alarming. He was just normal Koscha, the same as on any other day; loyal, quiet, trustworthy.

But comfort only lasted a moment, and then she was on guard. A subtle glint in his eye had first hinted her towards suspicion, but as soon as he spoke, Jeyne knew that he _knew_. Somehow, Koscha _knew_ that the medicine from Dorne was not helping, Theon was still dying, and Jeyne was planning to follow him into the afterlife on the wings of a tiny silver dagger. _How? How did he find out?_

Koscha gave no preface before he squatted in front of her, gently reaching out to touch her hand in a gesture of comfort.

Breaking barriers he had no right to be breaking, as if he were her familiar, or her husband.

When he spoke, his voice barely broke above a whisper, "Your Grace, death may seem like a mercy, like a quiet rest after the long hard fight, a sweet and tender embrace. Trust me, I can empathize with you more than you could possibly understand; but sometimes, just sometimes, it's worth holding out. You have to believe me. You can't read your fate in the stars—to you the future is hidden like the curve of the earth looping eternally beyond the horizon. But it's there—and your puzzle piece is particularly important—you just have to trust me. I can help you."

It took everything Jeyne had not to interrupt him during his soliloquy, perhaps compelled into silence by his bold, dark eyes(?) He looked like someone else during those moments, like someone older and far more dangerous than a simple man of the Queen's guard.

"What? Koscha, what do you mean, speaking to me like this? You're scaring me!" she squawked as soon as the moment had been broken, trying to force sense into his words. He remained silent for a few moments as she processed everything, before Jeyne added, calmly and more quietly, "What about Theon?"

"What about him?" He sounded bored.

"You said I have a future, somehow you've seen it; somehow you know. What about Theon? What can you see in his future? Is he to die?" The effort of trying to hold back tears made Jeyne feel like her eyes were going to rupture.

Koscha continued his verbal cadence, unfazed. "Theon's fate hinges on yours, and your fate hinges on mine. Tonight. The hour of the wolf. Leave your chamber door unlocked and be ready in your warmest clothes. I'll come to you, but it's your job to keep up with me. I bid you good evening, Your Grace. And Godspeed."

With that said, he turned around in an extravagant flourish of his cloak, and walked calmly out the door as if nothing odd had happened between them.

As soon as the door had swung shut, Jeyne melted down into a heap upon the bed, head in her hands, crying, laughing. Wondering if she had finally lost her sanity. If she was dreaming. Or drunk. Maybe she was dead already, and this was some odd form of the afterlife.

But even the hint of a ghost of a chance was worth fighting for, wasn't it?

Come the hour of the wolf, she was ready and waiting when her anticipated guest finally showed up. She tiptoed past the children's rooms as quietly as possible, willing them to stay deep in slumber. Her eyes never left Koscha's back. And then the chase was on.

Jeyne almost missed him when he stopped, suddenly, nearly three miles into their frantic run and standing at the edge of a dense stand of sentinels. The trees' barren branches seemed to reach up towards the full moon with unspoken longing. Somehow it felt like unholy ground—the very opposite of a Godswood. As if the trees were unfriendly beasts that would eat her up as soon as she turned her back on them. She didn't understand why.

Koscha turned around, looked at her silently, like a predator sizing up its prey, and made a subtle tilt of the head urging her to come join him.

She wanted to scream. Something seemed oddly inhuman about the way his head moved, something Jeyne struggled to put into words but felt all too well just beneath her skin. Suddenly terrified, she might have fled crying off into the woods if she had not had Theon to think about. Instead, she kept her composure and willed herself to walk proudly, with her head held high, like a regal Queen come to negotiate with a monster for the good of the realm.

What was she even thinking? _This was Koscha, just Koscha. _The same respectful, young guard she saw everyday_. Nothing to be frightened of, right? _

But his smile when she finally reached his side was full of spider venom and stinging nettles, and his canine teeth seemed somehow far longer than they had any right to be.

"Good. You've kept up. Just one more path, and we'll be where I need us. Keep at my side; I'll walk slowly enough for you to keep up. Trust me, Jeyne. You've done very well so far tonight, and I would hate for you to lose your courage so very close to your goal."

Not waiting for an answer, he began walking, and Jeyne couldn't help but notice that he walked on top of the foot or so of snow she found herself struggling through. The observation felt like a justification for her formerly-baseless fears. _Magic. Sorcery and magic._

Only two dozen steps into the thick sentinel thicket and Koscha stopped again in front of what appeared to be an old stone well, covered by a flat, smooth, oval-shaped stone. To Jeyne, it looked ancient and out of place, as if it had been weathered by the squalls of a hundred thousand windstorms or the soft caresses of countless worshipping hands. Like a portal to another time—ancient and governed by wicked laws. He moved the stone effortlessly, as if it weighed nothing, and descended into the well with soundless steps. There were stairs, she saw. Descending out of the moonlight into the darkness below.

Jeyne felt so lost in it all that she barely even jumped when the stone cover slammed shut hard behind her, casting them both into momentary darkness. That is, until her escort raised both his hands, palms up, as if gathering energy from the air, and kept them that way until they began to glow with a soft, white light. She was too stunned to speak. Awed into silence, now that she knew she was in the presence of a real magician (_or a demon. Or an angel?_)

The stairs wound tightly in a descending spiral; Jeyne took steps two at a time in an attempt to keep up with Koscha. Though she kept most of her attention focused on the mage in front of her, she couldn't help but notice the intricate designs on the stone walls of the well—symbols she did not recognize, painted figures of winged people, winged horses, half-lidded eyes, and predatory birds. Snow and flames twisted together in front of a field of gilded stars. The paint seemed to glow in unnatural metallic tints in the odd half-light; silver, gold, the reddish hues of copper, the earthy tones of bronze, a sea-foam-blue the color of mother-of-pearl, black like onyx (or Koscha Rivers' eyes).

Finally they reached bottom. It felt like hours had passed, though of course it had only been a handful of minutes. Of course, she had simply walked down half a hundred steps, not back in time a half a hundred centuries. _Of course._

The small, elaborately decorated stairwell ended in a spacious, frighteningly cold stone cavern. Compared to the bleak semi-light of the poorly illuminated path downwards, this room was lit brilliantly—owing largely to a deep, round chasm in the center of the room that glowed with a bright blue light. Koscha even let his hands fall down to his sides, relaxing and allowing the light he had gathered at his fingertips to flow back into the air around him. Head bowed, eyes closed (as if in reverence) he walked slowly to the pit, Jeyne following hesitantly at his side.

The blue glow stole her gaze without her permission, drawing her into its beauty until she lost track of her present, until Koscha's quiet voice gently brought her back.

_It's alright Jeyne. Don't be afraid. _She heard in her head, unspoken between them.

"I'm really sorry that I haven't been able to tell you the truth about who I am, Jeyne. It just hasn't been the right time for it, my Lady." As he broke the silence for real this time, his eyes seemed honest to Jeyne, as if he was being sincere for once. She wanted to trust him.

"But why? Why have you told me now? Why even get involved with Winterfell in the first place? Who are you? What are you?" She had half a million questions and they all came flying out of her mouth unbidden at once, quick enough that she had a difficult time understanding even her own words.

"I'm just a humble old soul trying to look out for the things I enjoy. I'm trying to win a war. A war that hasn't even truly began yet. But it will, trust me, it will—and I intend for my side to be the side that wins." He smiled without showing his teeth, his eyes closed tight. Confident.

_But we've just finished a war, thought Jeyne in dismay. Can't we have peace for a time? _

Instead she said, "How can you try to win a war that hasn't even started yet? And please, just tell me what you are. Really. The truth, so I know what I'm dealing with. I won't sell my soul to a demon."

Koscha spoke more quickly this time, perhaps with the slightest hint of irritation in his voice. "I'm not the Stranger, I promise you. Ha! I already told you, I'm just an old human soul trying to influence the future, that's all I'll ever be. You see, there are prophecies that tell much to those of us who know how to read them—and they speak of dreadful things coming upon us yet again. They sing of appointed heroes and dreadful villains, and unexpected life and unanticipated death—ice-crowned Other-creatures and girls with red eyes and even desperate white-haired wildlings. You know how elaborate these epic prophecies are…like a spider's web all tangled together.

But the future, I promise, is fluid—nothing is truly etched in stone, and even the boldest, most skilled sorcerer can misread a prophecy. I can change the future. You can change the future. It's not difficult, you just have to know where the lines are that connect one event to the next, and know how to sever them. Similar to cutting the bindings in a book. Of course, you know, the consequences can be rather difficult to predict, but fates can be changed. And yours is the first on my agenda. All it takes is a little push to start an avalanche."

It was all just too much. "But why?" she murmured, knowing she wasn't going to get an answer. At least not a straight one.

Koscha held his hands, palms down over the blue glow bubbling like cold magma below him. After a few moments like this, he reached out to clasp both of Jeyne's hands in his own—they were as cold as the black sky on the darkest winter's night.

"Because I want to win the war," he replied, his black eyes resounding with cold blue fire.

Jeyne shuddered as she felt his power course through her arm like a furry spider crawling maliciously up her sleeve.


End file.
